


The prison opening, the chain that snaps

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Philosophy, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Maedhros' thoughts on suicide, in Aman, and in Angband.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For B2MEM, Red Path, Torture.

Self-slaughter was a concept unheard of in Aman; the closest Maedhros ever came to learning of it was in hearing about his grandmother's death, and trying to puzzle out for himself why she simply could not return to life. 

But the death of Míriel was less the personal tragedy that it was for Fëanor and more of a philosophical mystery, a debate, a discussion. Did she want to simply rest, and was not afforded the time she needed? Had she truly declared that she never wished to return to physical life? The idea of death as leaving the world altogether seemed akin to asking to be erased from existence entirely. Although Maedhros knew that Eru dwelt beyond the bounds of Eä, it was not conceived of as a place where the spirits of Elves could ever exist. Míriel's rumoured request to be thus made null and void was all but incomprehensible. 

Then followed the Darkening, then followed Maedhros' experiences at Alqualondë. It was so easy, after all, to separate spirit from body, to cause pain so destructive that the spirit had to flee. It simply took a well-placed thrust of the shining sword he never thought he would be using in this manner. His deeds choked him, shocked him. He felt no battle-lust, merely horror and dread. His life was suddenly at risk, and he had to keep it, that was all, and if it meant slaying another to do so, then he would. 

It was in battle on the cold shores of Beleriand that he finally learned of battle-rage, tested his will and mettle against Orcs, most of whom were more well-trained than he, if less strong. He learned from them even as he killed them, learned to thrust and parry and dance a deadly dance, weaving in and out, protecting his men, defending the injured, avenging the dead. In such times, death was all around, and unthinkable at the same time. Death could not be tolerated. There was no room for doubt. 

There was plenty of room for doubt once he was captured and taken to Angband. Slow torture on the rack would have been kinder than what they actually did, which was to lock him in a barren cell and leave him to stew, taking him out now and again for cruel jests or to parade their pretty Elven prize before the mocking crowds of assorted Orcs. He looked on his enemies and his heart grew hot with rage, but he could do nothing, restrained as he was, and attempts to escape were proven, time and again, futile. 

He learned to survive on little, and finally, nothing at all save water, and when they finally grew weary of him and Morgoth bade him be hung by his wrist from the clifftop, a banner there to wave and declare Morgoth's victory, he suffered himself to be led away. Voices echoed in the hollow hills over the years, and sometimes he cried out, hoping only to be heard. 

It was there that the concept of self-slaughter returned to him not as philosophy but as a possibility, a chance for freedom, escape! Was it not the duty of every prisoner to attempt escape if held unjustly? And if the chains of Morgoth shackled his body, his spirit could still run and run. The Halls of Mandos awaited, and he could see his father again, and his grandfather. 

But it was less easy to will himself to die than he at first suspected. Life held him there in ever-present torture. Starvation did not do it, and though he thought thirst might be a way, he could not resist drinking rainwater when it fell. The life-force within him would not let him die. He could not hold his breath long enough to choke himself, he could not move enough to destroy himself, cold and exposure itself was simply not enough. 

When he heard singing in the hills and a familiar voice, his first thought was only of relief. "Kill me," he begged the vision of Fingon that appeared to him, and he knew it to be truly Fingon when he hesitated, when he prayed.


End file.
